He brushed the hair away from my face tenderly. I swallowed, feeling like I might swoon like some Victorian lady in a corset.
“Yes, but that was a while ago. And he wasn’t… he didn’t…”
Mac frowned and looked at me.
“He didn’t kiss you like that?”
I sighed in relief.
“Exactly.”
“You were overwhelmed.”
“Yes.” I nodded, relieved that he got it. He stepped closer so that our bodies were touching.
“You want to take it slow.”
My heart lit up. That was exactly what I wanted. Well, not exactly, exactly. What I really wanted was to jump his bones and hump him on the ground, but I was afraid I’d do something really stupid.
I was afraid I would not be any good at it. Not like a guy who looked like him was used to.
Or fart. I was afraid I’d fart.
That’s how nervous I was.
“We can kiss. If you want.”
He smiled slowly.
“Okay, Suzanna. We can do that.”
His lips came close to mine slowly, barely brushing them. I sighed at the whisper-light touch. Then he knelt, going back to what he was doing as if we hadn’t just negotiated to make out later.
I blinked and then turned and walked back inside in a daze.
He’d said yes and then… nothing. Okay. I checked my breath and then shrugged. It didn’t smell bad. Maybe he just wanted to finish his work.
Obviously, kissing me was not a priority.
I started making dinner, my favorite heirloom black rice, which had been soaking all day, organic turkey sausages, and a side of the tomatoes he liked so much, with a few new varieties thrown in that had ripened today, served this time with fresh mozzarella from a local organic dairy farmer.
One thing I loved about California was the food. It was always so fresh. And the weather… and the sunshine.
I sat down to check my seed drying rack and start packaging some that were ready. Time passed quickly. Before I knew it, the buzzer was going and I was fluffing the rice and squeezing lemon into it. I added some freshly-crushed garlic and olive oil. Then I put the lid back on and left everything warming on the stove.
“Is that dinner?”
I jumped at the soft voice and glanced over my shoulder. Mac stood in the doorway, looking like a Greek god. His broad shoulders nearly touched the sides of the door and his head barely cleared the doorway. His dark blue eyes pierced me. I nodded and smiled nervously.
How did I end up on a date? Maybe even a second date?
I barely know him, I reminded myself. No need to get ahead of yourself. It’s just dinner.
“Have a seat,” I murmured, clearing half the table for us to eat. I had already put out napkins and silverware. I grabbed two plates from the cupboard and set them down, ready to plate.
Drinks. Offer him drinks, you halfwit.
I grimaced, realizing how woefully out of practice I was. I didn’t really date anyone seriously in high school, other than a prom or a couple of movies on a Saturday night. I’d met David almost right away in college, then married him immediately after graduation. We’d moved to the big, bad city for work, but I didn’t feel like I’d really experienced it. I’d certainly never been around the block.
Not any block.
I still felt like a teenager in a lot of ways. Or an old lady. I wasn’t quite sure which.
“Do you like beer? Or sangria?”
“Whatever you are having.”
“Sangria it is.”
I got out the pitcher I’d made earlier and two glasses. I carried it over and started to pour it.
“I got it,” he said, his warm, strong hand on mine. Our eyes met and caught. I inhaled shakily and nodded, hurrying back to the kitchen to plate our food. I even had flatbread and a little bowl of spiced olive oil with balsamic vinegar and herbs mixed in for dipping.
“This looks amazing,” he said as I sat down across from him. His expression was impossible to read, as usual. But he did seem appreciative.
“I wanted to thank you properly for everything you’ve done.”
He smiled then, and I got a warm, funny feeling in my stomach. There was something naughty about that smile. Something… predatory.
As usual, he said very little as we ate. He made a few appreciative noises. It was funny, but I didn’t mind his silence. Sometimes, I felt the need to talk when someone else was quiet. I had come to terms long ago with being socially awkward. But I didn’t feel awkward around him.
It just felt nice.
And the way he looked at me… well, that spoke volumes.
Apparently, Mac liked watching me eat.
My mouth, in particular.
I was definitely getting kissed after this.
He poured us more sangria and stared at the glass, holding it up to the light.
“Pomegranate. And cherries. It’s my own recipe.”
“I like it,” he said, staring at me and then taking a long, cool drink. He wiped a droplet of the pink liquid off his mouth and I almost melted. The man looked like he was in a commercial. The one where horny office ladies were staring out the window at a construction guy taking a break with a cold can of soda.